Shannon and I exchange a look. “New sex thing?”
“Identity. I meant to say identity. I was just on a conference call working on insurance rates for people with nonconforming gender identity,” she says, her voice shifting from nervousness to authority as she talks about work. “And the consultants were explaining that gender and sexuality isn’t black and white like it used to be. It’s all shades of grey.”
“Fifty of them?” Shannon jokes.
Mom’s face goes red again and she won’t meet our eyes. “Not quite like that...that book.”
“Josh is gay, mom. Hard gay. Confirmed gay. Unyieldingly gay, so no, I’m not going on a date with him.”
“Not even a fake date?” Shannon jokes.
“Only if he fake pays.”
Mom’s brow creases, and not in pain. “Then who? Greg?” She bursts out laughing.
“Actually, it’s Andrew McCormick.”
“The closet kisser?”
“Yes.”
“He asked you out?”
“Yes. For dinner.”
“In a closet?” Shannon cracks up.
“At a restaurant.”
“And you...accepted?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because he’s treated you so shabbily! He kisses you and doesn’t call.”
She’s got me there.
Her eyes narrow. “You’ve kissed again.”
“Yes.”
“And this time he asked you out?”
“Yes.”
“Why the change of heart?” Her question is directed at Shannon. “You’re engaged to his brother. Do you know something we don’t?”
I bristle at the word we.
“Can we go back to talking about that kinky sex thing you were describing earlier, Pam? I’m still stuck on that,” Shannon says.
“Not kinky!” Mom whispers the word. “Gender fluid. No labels. We were trying to determine life insurance rates and roll in gender and sexuality self-identification patterns for determining premium rates and it’s quite complicated.”
Mom is an actuary for high-risk insurance populations and situations. Take a natural worrywart with a highly analytical mind and find a work-at-home job she can do while suffering from fibromyalgia.
Upshot: it pays well and uses a unique skill set Mom possesses.
Downside: she has some really irrational fears now based on statistics.
“What does gender fluidity have to do with me?”
“You were married to Shannon, after all, honey, for those mortgage evaluations.”
That joke doesn’t get old for everyone but me and Shannon.
I snake my arm around Shannon’s waist. “And she’s the best wife ever,” I say with a laugh as I tip her back and give her a fake kiss, one hand pressed over her mouth, my lips kissing the back of my own hand.
At that exact moment, the silhouette of a man appears at the open screen door.
“Hello?”
It’s Andrew.
I nearly drop Shannon, who begins laughing hysterically.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Just kissing Shannon.”
“And not in a closet,” Mom mutters. I don’t know whether Andrew hears her, as Shannon is opening the screen door and giving him a hug right now. An insane cloud of jealousy strikes me, unfolding like Wolverine’s titanium claws sliding out, hidden but deadly.
Where did that come from?
“Hello, Amanda,” Andrew says, eyes combing over me. Fortunately, I’m ready. Not having any idea where he’s taking me, I went for a smart casual, which means a huge upgrade from my normal fashion sense of shabby chic. I’m wearing an all-black suit made from a shiny silk-linen blend that I got from an upscale boutique mystery shop last year. No stockings. Mary Jane patent leather heels. Bright red dot earrings and red beaded necklace. Dark brown hair and red lips.
And a red shiner.
Concern reflects from those warm, brown eyes the second he sees my cheek. “What happened? Who did that to you?” He’s so fierce, his body tensing, that I almost wish I could name someone for him to go avenge me.
Alas...
“A teacup chihuahua named Muffin.”
He flinches, stepping closer, examining my eye. “I’d say you lost. The dog has quite a right hook.” As his fingertips gently brush against my jaw line as he leans in for a closer look. He smells like limes and cardamom, a fresh, slightly mysterious scent.
“You haven’t seen him. I gave him a run for his money.”
He smiles, but his eyes remain filled with worry. His hand drops from my face and I want it back.
“Are you sure you’re fine for dinner? You could have texted me and postponed.” He bends down for a casual hug, his lips brushing against the skin below my cheek, the kiss a formality that makes me quiver.
Like Muffin.
With a politeness blended with unbridled charm, Andrew gives Mom his full attention. “And you must be Amanda’s mother. I’m so glad to meet you. Andrew McCormick.” He extends his hand, and I hold my breath. Most people think a strong handshake is a sign of good character, but for someone with fibromyalgia it’s a form of torture.
On the other hand, the limp fish handshake that some men extend to women isn’t exactly an improvement.
By watching Mom’s face, I can see he gets the balance just right. Her eyes comb over him, reading him carefully. Whatever she sees as they make a few sentences of small talk seems to please her while my brain turns into a Vitamix on High that drowns out their words.
He smells so good. An undercurrent of soap and leather fills my senses as he retreats. Mom and Shannon are watching us like television producers on The Bachelor. Every second feels both awkward and settled as I walk across the room to get my purse. I have no idea where we’re going, no sense of his expectations, I’m trying to rid myself of all of mine, and by the time I reach the front door he’s there, holding the screen door open for me, turning back to my mother.